“No.  A thousand times, no,” he said violently.  Then, more gently: 
“I’m making a fool of myself.  I want your peace and good will,
Elizabeth.  God knows I need them.”

“You frighten me, Dick,” she said, slowly.  “I didn’t come to bring forgiveness, if that is what you mean.  I came—­”

“Don’t tell me you came to ask it.  That would be more than I can bear.”

“Will you listen to me for a moment, Dick?  I am not good at explaining things, and I’m nervous.  I suppose you can see that.”  She tried to smile at him.  “A—­a little work, a sleep, a little love, that’s life, isn’t it?”

He was watching her intently.

“Work and trouble, and a long sleep at the end for which let us be duly thankful—­that’s life, too.  Love?  Not every one gets love.”

Hopelessness and despair overwhelmed her.  He was making it hard for her.  Impossible.  She could not go on.

“I did not come with peace,” she said tremulously, “but if you don’t want it—­” She rose.  “I must say this, though, before I go.  I blame myself.  I don’t blame you.  You are wrong if you think I came to forgive you.”

She was stumbling toward the door.

“Elizabeth, what did bring you?”

She turned to him, with her hand on the door knob.  “I came because I wanted to see you again.”

He strode after her and catching her by the arm, turned her until he faced her.

“And why did you want to see me again?  You can’t still care for me.  You know the story.  You know I was here and didn’t see you.  You’ve seen Leslie Ward.  You know my past.  What you don’t know—­”

He looked down into her eyes.  “A little work, a little sleep, a little love,” he repeated.  “What did you mean by that?”

“Just that,” she said simply.  “Only not a little love, Dick.  Maybe you don’t want me now.  I don’t know.  I have suffered so much that I’m not sure of anything.”

“Want you!” he said.  “More than anything on this earth.”

Bassett was at his desk in the office.  It was late, and the night editor, seeing him reading the early edition, his feet on his desk, carried over his coffee and doughnuts and joined him.

“Sometime,” he said, “I’m going to get that Clark story out of you.  If it wasn’t you who turned up the confession, I’ll eat it.”

Bassett yawned.

“Have it your own way,” he said indifferently.  “You were shielding somebody, weren’t you?  No?  What’s the answer?”

Bassett made no reply.  He picked up the paper and pointed to an item with the end of his pencil.

“Seen this?”

The night editor read it with bewilderment.  He glanced up.

“What’s that got to do with the Clark case?”

“Nothing.  Nice people, though.  Know them both.”

When the night editor walked away, rather affronted, Bassett took up the paper and reread the paragraph.